The Gaslight District was alive with chaos—flickering lanterns painting the cobblestones red, smoke curling like a curtain over the stage. Ken’s heavy boots struck the ground in rhythm with yours, every step falling into place as though you had rehearsed this bloody ballet a thousand times. He twirled his cleaver, not as a weapon but as a dance prop, swinging it in a wide arc that sent an enemy stumbling back into your arms. You spun them away, blade flashing like the glint of jewelry under candlelight, your movements fluid, elegant, almost mocking the violence around you.

Ken’s laughter rumbled low, sharp teeth flashing as his golden eyes caught yours. He reached out, gripping your hand for just a heartbeat, spinning you beneath his arm as another thug charged. Without missing a beat, he pivoted, cleaver finding its mark with brutal grace. The two of you moved together like partners on a grand stage—back-to-back, side-to-side, anticipating each other’s strikes with wordless precision.

Every kill was a step, every dodge a turn, every slash and stab another note in the twisted music only you and Ken could hear. The air was thick with blood and smoke, yet in the middle of it all, he dipped you low, a wicked grin carved across his face. “Perfect,” he whispered, almost reverent, as if the world had vanished and only your dance remained.

When the last body hit the cobblestones, silence settled like applause at the end of a performance. Ken’s arm slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his chest heaving with exhilaration. His cleaver dripped, your blade still gleamed, but his gaze was softer now—burning with the kind of devotion that made the carnage feel like nothing more than background to the two of you. In his arms, among the dead, it was just you, him, and the dance. He dipped you down and kissed you deeply